Tag: Weight Loss

I’ve gone through my closet a couple of times in the past month or so, weeding it of pieces I’ve had for years. The soft loosely fit pants I bought in both a steel grey and khaki because the trousers I normally wore to work were getting too snug around my waist and were too warm for summer. The newer navy pinstriped trousers I found on sale, with a more comfortable waistband that kept me from thinking about my expanding midsection. Three pair of my favorite Bermuda shorts I think I lived in last summer. A couple pair of ancient light-weight cargo shorts that made shrugging out of pajama bottoms so easy from one day to the next.

And then there were the jeans.

Stretchy jeans. Favorite faded jeans that had gotten too small, then happily fit again, now too big even after a good hot water washing and spin in the dryer. Big jeans purchased in desperation, only briefly worn when things were seriously getting out of hand. Dark colored trouser jeans I bought for our trip to England a year and a half ago and then outgrew. It took a year, but I managed to do it.

As I removed each piece of clothing from its hangar, I tried it on — something I detest doing. The better part of a day was spent standing in front of our mirror clad closet doors while I examined my reflection noticing sagging in the rear, or a gaping waistband. Pants easily removed with a simple tug — no unzipping necessary. As much as you might expect I’d cheer each time it happened, I didn’t. I was busy trying to ignore my practical self voice– the one that thinks about how much was paid for something worn only a few times. Or the seemingly helpful self who cautioned that a waistband wasn’t all that loose and that I may need to hang on to some things.

Just. In. Case.

Four large plastic garbage bags were filled by the time I was done and as much as I can say it felt good to realize losing 20 pounds makes a such difference, I noticed my preoccupation with other things. Things like the sizes on the clothes — many of which were 14s. Size 14s that all fit so differently from huge to still just right. Fourteens with waistbands too high and tight, and others low cut and baggy. A couple of size 12s were also too big, others too small. One size ten I could squeeze into if I thought I wanted to look like an enormous trussed chicken ready for the oven.

That was nearly five pounds ago — and counting. Every other day or so weigh-ins to document my progress have become something that can easily upset me depending on what that progress actually is. Sometimes, there seems to be no logic to it: a one and eight-tenths gain, then a two and four-tenths loss the very next morning regardless of the strict consistency I strive for with this routine. It’s maddening, catching me wanting the gratification of a particular number instead of the understanding that the big picture provides.

So I review.

Eat breakfast before 9am. Check. Alternate between eggs and veggies, whole grain cereal with a bit of fruit, or a carefully orchestrated smoothie. Check. Eat enough calories in one day. Struggle to check. Get your cardio and strength exercises done each week. Sort of check but always working on it.

All my life, I’ve thought of food, but thinking about it in this capacity at times has become exhausting. I’ve begun to notice that instead of wanting to be constructive about planning meals with creativity, I simply want to get it over with. How challenging can it be to grill a small piece of fish or lean meat and roast a vegetable? Grab a healthy snack between meals. Fire up the blender for a smoothie?

I’ve reached the halfway point — or to be more accurate — see it right in front of me, taunting me. Telling me I need to step it up. Get myself moving. But today, I’m tired and cranky. And I’ll allow myself that because staying on good course for 18 weeks, I’ve done what I set out to do. But I’ve been waking earlier than I normally do and staying up later. When I’m not careful about what I eat, I end up with too few calories in my body and feeling like I’m out of fuel, because that’s exactly what I am.

No patience, easy to rile, and seriously lacking in motivation. Flat.

But I don’t “cheat.” I use that term loosely because most understand that being on a diet implies there are rules that must be followed just so — and if they’re broken, it’s cheating. I never set out to be on a diet. I set out to change the way I live my life and feed my body.

At first, I was almost religious about eating five times a day. Three fairly even meals with a morning and afternoon snack. But as I’ve progressed, things have changed. The snacks have sort of disappeared and not by intention. I get busy and don’t think about it. Saved calories, right? That doesn’t work for me. I’ve figured that if I don’t keep the fuel steadily coming, then the whole thing breaks down. I’ve also shifted away from eating even sprouted wheat bread once in a while — toasted with a measured mound of egg or chicken curry on it. Again, this hasn’t been by design.

It’s been days that I’ve been writing this and struggling over how to say it all. When I read it over, there’s no justice served to what I’ve learned.

Perhaps it’s a lesson about my life in general. What I’ve learned must be summed up in a particular way, and because I’m not done, well then, it’s not easy to put down.

Words escape me, but I’ve taken photos just to document. Yes, photos. Each month on a given day, I subject myself to photos taken in three positions. I make a collage of sorts and date it, and each month, I compare the extent to which I’ve grown smaller. Clearly, I have. The clothes show it, the photos show it, and I can see it. I share the photos only with my husband who says he could never do it himself.

But it holds me accountable far more than loose clothing or a number on a scale. A glance in the mirror.

Yet, I’m wondering. Am I just giving in to something I’ve always said I’ve deplored?

Tally-Ho NaBloMoPo on Day 14. So move it. Can you do it? Make it burn…on three…ready? Let’s go. Whatever. But this one will be short, because I have to do a post on my food blog today, too. I was nearly done with a post two days ago, was loading the last photo, and then…Yes. That stoopid message that says something about being reset so the connection was lost came up after I realized things were getting a bit slow and I suspected the inevitable was about to happen. When’s the last time you actually saw mad? You know. Like, really mad.

I just thought I’d take a moment today to let you know you kicked my butt the other day. Seriously. I should have known better, and that’s what I get for not taking the time to do a bit of research; i.e., look before you leap. I should have channel-surfed a bit. But you looked so harmless. So sweet. It was that smile.

I’m sure you’re far too busy for someone like me, but I’ve been trying to find ways to make sure I get regular exercise. I don’t always look forward to it, but do a fairly good job of getting in some exercise at least four days a week. But I’ve been struggling with the time change since I have a tendency to go out late in the afternoon or early evening to walk — hopefully right before the MoH gets home. One day it was completely dark by the time I’d finished, and although I sort of enjoy that, occasionally, the brush by the side of the road engages my overactive imagination and my constructive pessimistic proclivities begin to map out my defense on the chance the boogey man is hiding in the bushes and is getting ready to jump out to get me. Little does he know that I’m ready to grab the sides of his face in my palms and dig my thumbs into his eyeball sockets, knee him in the nards, and if necessary, ram his nose up into his sinus cavity with the base of my palm. Of course, a lifetime of repressed rage would most likely also be unleashed and there wouldn’t be much left of him.

Yes. Well, um, so I had waited too long to walk and it was already dark, so I decided to take a look at the free On Demand channels on cable. I thought I’d seen something about Exercise on Demand and thought I’d give it a shot. Mind you, it was some time ago (like years) that I’d see this feature of our monthly service to Time Warner, but that’s beside the point.

You would have been proud. I had appropriate exercise clothes on, and my tennies. Hell, even my weights were close by. I have to be honest though — I was a bit worried about my left arm since it’s been so screwed up with tendonitis. But I wasn’t going to use that as an excuse. I was going to suck it up.

Suck dough balls was more like it.

Sheeeeee-it. You smiled the entire time you were kicking my butt. In fact you kept telling me to smile and each time you did, I wasn’t. What’s up with the whole smiling while your tongue’s flapping around your chin? Have you ever tried to do that? But since I’m a team player, I tried, and I did learn that if I smile with my teeth, at least I can get air into my oxygen deprived lungs.

And I did appreciate that you kept telling me that I could take a break any time I wanted. I did notice that you smiled when you said this, like it was some kind of a dare. I’ve got you all figured out, marching in place there and not losing count while you’re smiling and telling me to take it easy. And not sweating. Not a single shiny place on your body.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to hang on to a weight when sweat’s dripping down your arms? Huh? And your your spine? Well, suffice it to say it was a veritable river headed down to my drawers. At least the RT didn’t make any comments when he walked by wondering about this latest project his mother had gotten involved in. And he didn’t laugh when I grunted, either, and I was listening.

I know you know that I knew I’d be doomed after the warm up and before the weights because I was already toast. That you knew that I’d know those repetitions would make my muscles feel like they’d been flopped into a frying pan set on sizzle. You totally knew. And you smiled the entire time. But you also knew I’d feel like *thank gawd I’m done* successful and proud after you ran me through the wringer the routine. I know you’d know that I knew I’d know you knew. Yanno?

So all in all, the beginner’s (ohmygawdwhatmustheregularworkoutbelike?) workout was a freakin’ killer great and because it was an interminable, exhausting only 30 minutes, I switched to a cardio salsa dancing workout that finished the job you started immediately afterward. I’ll have to thank her another time since I couldn’t see the writing on the screen with my face on the floor didn’t catch her name.

But hey! It was so incredibly tortuous and I was so sore the next day fun, that I was thoroughly encouraged to go on my walk again, making sure I got it in before the sun went down — in the drizzling rain.

So thanks, Desiree! The next time I need my butt royally kicked an amazing workout, I know how far and fast to run in the opposite directionyou da man.

Devotedly,

Me

p.s. Might you be related to Rachael Ray? Just asking. It must be the smile.

Actually, the workout was excellent, and I was surprised that I felt as if I’d gotten more done than twice the time on a vigorous walk. I enjoy getting outside, keeping an eye on my odd neighbors in Paradise breathing, and watching the sunset, but this is something I need to do a couple of times a week.The on demand channels are an included service, and I can exercise whenever I want, which is, well, not a whole lot different that most everything else I do. So…okay. Whatever.

Dorothy, are we in Kansas yet? I don’t know what day in NaBloPoMo I’m in, but have already figured out that it’s a gonna be a long haul…

November 6, 2007

To Whom it May Concern:

There isn’t one special person I’d like to address today. Blame it on Thinner. You know, that hunk ‘o metal and plastic that I step on once a week just to see how quickly I’m losing the battle of the bulge? Yes, Her. And yanno? She’s just as heartless as she’s always been. Cold, calculating bitc….

The MoH and I started a little health plan a week ago and he has lost three whole pounds as of yesterday and I’ve lost notta-one. Zero. Nothing. Nada. I am so completely sick of this whole thing I can’t see straight. No, I’m not talking about just from this past week. Hell, this goes back months. COULD I GET SOME PROGRESS HERE, WAITER? What kind of establishment is this anyhoo?

I don’t want any advice. I don’t need consoling, or understanding or links to research or plans or anything like that. I read. In fact, if I could figure out how to sustain life by just reading, I’d be in heaven. I read, question, research, examine, wonder. I do all that crap like breathing. I could probably spout off any fact that anyone wants to know about being healthy. But I guess I just am not willing to live on a spa diet and bust my ass an hour a day each and every day of the week. I’m destined to be a dumpling. A morsel.

What I need is a bit fat sucker machine. A giant Flo-bee. One that I can just hook up, and not only will it remove any adipose tissue I’m not overly fond of, but it will suck out the genes I have that have nudged me to this point over the years, fine American Farm Stock that I am. Sheesh. SOOOOOOOO-EEEEEEE….

I don’t want to be skinny. Hell, I don’t even want to weight what I did when I was in my twenties. I just want to be rewarded for:

eliminating quite a bit of meat from our diet in the past week and what meat we’ve had has been in four oz. portions

not intending to, but skipping a few meals, ( and boy did I pay for that with shaky, trembling legs and drowsiness)

not eating chips, or cookies, or candy, soda, or ice cream (which I rarely, if ever, eat anyway) REALLY.

when we went out last Friday, ordering a salad that I didn’t even eat all of

not being able to remember the last time I had pizza or fast food in any way, shape or form. Wait. I had pizza when the fires were burning — so two or so weeks ago?

having ONE small piece of Halloween candy

walking between 10-12 miles last week

eating only ONE piece of that luscious Bostini that I actually ended up throwing in the trash and isn’t that a complete crime for being so very wasteful…

OKAY? Jeez. Maybe some TNT would help. Just blow the parts off me. But yanno? I think I’ll just nuke the damn scale. She’s a stupid b*tch anyway. And a liar, with that Thinner staring at whomever is brave enough to step on her ugly face. That’s what she gets for lying.

I know. I’m supposed to be patient. Understanding. Do yoga. Feel positive that I didn’t GAIN weight this week. Excuse me? I’m sick of open-minded, positive thinking, too. Seriously. A little hissy fit and some generally nasty thinking has got to be healthy once in a while. Maybe if I get really worked up here, I could burn some calories.

Whatever.

And the thing that is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO annoying about this is that I actually LIKE myself. Honestly. I’m not doing this because I abhor the sight of myself or consider myself to be unsightly. But at some point, I’m smart enough to know that as I age, I need to be very aware of what and how I eat, and the degree to which I exercise because I want to live a very long time. And people in my family do. Very long. And what the hell fun will it be to not be able to move, or think, or write, or create nonsense with my hands? No thanks.

I’m going to organize closets now. At least that way, I can actually see what I’ve accomplished and won’t have to soothe say my way to some level of awareness and understanding that will allow me to exist harmoniously with myself. What a load of horse sh*t.

Guess what? The MoH has finally decided that he needs to exercise. Actually, he already knew that, but you know how that goes, right? Woo-Hoo! I’ve found another exercise buddy. And we are making some food and drink committments, too. I know you’re sick of hearing me yammer on about this and then nothing happens, so whatever. Fine. But still. We’re on it. We ARE, okay?

What happened to my VBF? She works umpteen gazillion hours a week and has decided to go to boot camp everyday at o-dark-thirty. No boot camp for me. I couldn’t do a push up if I tried. Just thinking about it pains me.

So the MoH and I went for our first walk Sunday. He didn’t even break a sweat. I, on the other hand, was sweating and huffing and puffing. It’s so annoying. But at least I was up and out. The air was still a bit smoky smelling and by the time we were done, my sinuses were stinging. I’m thinking it was probably worse to sit next to those happy smokers in Las Vegas, though. But the only jackpot I’d hit on a walk would be to find a penny someone dropped in the road. The promise of good fortune is always lovely.

We didn’t start our conscientious eating until yesterday because we were still recovering from those Bostinis I made. Jeez. But Monday, we were both on our best behavior as well. I ate so much spinach yesterday I swore I whinnied at the RT at one point. We’re packing in the veggies, and going easy on highly processed carbs. No extra servings for the MoH, one Coke a day for him, and two measly ounces of wine for me. Exercise daily. Water, vitamins, and all that rot.

I’m already looking for healthy recipes to bake. I have to cook. Have. To. But I will not be putting Splenda in anything. Ew-ah.

So yesterday was good. The MoH got home at a decent hour and then as planned, headed out the door to go work out at the gym in our development that we pay handsomely for and rarely use. As I put my shoes on to get ready for my walk, I could hear his car start up and shook my head thinking he was off to a terrific start. The gym is a four minute walk from our house. Jeez.

My walk takes me right past the gym, and I could see his persnickety car in the lot along with all the others. I was glad I wasn’t with them all and strode past, knowing the sunset would be spectacular. The air had lost its acrid smell and a pleasant breeze was blowing.

I love to walk. The problem is (and has been for years) that my shins always hurt. Or my feet. Add years to that and other aches and pains come and go. Right now, I have a serious problem with tennis elbow. And I’d love to blame it on playing tennis, but that’s not the case since I barely know what one looks like. It really kicked up when we were swimming this past summer and has only worsened. My friends chide me that it’s all the blogging I do. Fine. Why doesn’t my right had or arm hurt? Huh? It’s so tiresome.

But yesterday, NOTHING HURT! (Not counting my elbow, which I finally iced thanks to this site, so now I can officially call myself a cyberchondriac.) Totally amazing. I was able to zip along, push myself, enjoy the dark lavendar clouds tinged with peach change against the setting sun to a sooty grey in a field of deepening sapphire blue. Spectacular. Right under three miles in 25 minutes. Not bad. Stinky, but not bad at all. And I beat the MoH home.

A good way to cruise into the month of November, don’t you think?

And NaBloPoMoHo-Ho-Ho is around the corner. Blogging every day. Um, like this isn’t something I do already? I’m going to one up it, cut the length of these posts, and work on my food blog since I usually only complete two a week there. Is that cheating?

You need to sign up for NaBloMo. Come on. Click on those pink lips up there and join in. I only have two friends and the more the merrier. It will be fun. Except I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to handle the week off we have around here before Thanksgiving. Hmmm…

I’ll think about it later.

Gotta go. I’m off to a friends to cook. Not for me. For her. She’s expecting and we’re cooking and freezing dinners so she and her huzbink can take it easy after she delivers. They need to. She was having difficulty conceiving. Tried everything with no success and so decided to adopt a beautiful baby boy this past June. And guess what? Yep. She’s due in December. She’s been off her feet for some time now, and so is in the stretch. Life’s funny, isn’t it?

And if this post wasn’t the biggest load of unfocused blathering, I don’t know what is.

I guess October 8th is as good a day as any to decree that I’m back in the getting healthy and looking great saddle I fell off of after summer ended. Without a lot of fanfare, I’ve created another page up at the top called Daily Nitty Gritty so I can hold my Rubenesque self accountable for how much I eat, drink, and exercise. For some reason I’m simple-minded enough to comply with the rule that if I eat it or drink it, I write it down. I guess I must believe that I’m my own worst enemy, or that my conscience is anyway.

The way this simple tactic works is that I will avoid doing anything that I’m not ready to fess up about. No, I’m never compelled to cheat. And I’m not messing with goals that are related to pounds lost, either, because the frame of mind I’m in, I’d prefer to consider that I’m working on eating more vegetables, less meat and saturated fat, more fish, more whole grains, drink less wine, drink more water, and combine cardio with weights. Sound reasonable?

I’ve gotten on that damn scale just to note where I’ve begun (yes, back to square one). And I will get on it to track the pounds I do lose once every week on Tuesday like I was before. There has to be some reason to look forward to Tuesday since it’s the sorriest day on the calendar to me and always has been.

So no more procrastination. Just call me Scarlett. Well, maybe not… okay.Â Beulah.*Dang, girl. Them are some eyebrows…*

Okay, so my face doesn’t look quite right on Scarlett’s body since I had to cut off my cheeks and darken the brows, but I sure as hell know a lot more about the Photoshop CS3 present my niece gave me than I did when I started. And Jen at Absolutely Bananas who seems to be able to do the Photoshop cut and paste thing in her sleep gave far better directions than my Photoshop book. Thanks!

So, how’d I do, teach? Well, outside of my face being fatter than Vivien Leigh’s, the photos not quite being the same size (I did try…), and not taking a new photo to cut and paste because I’m butt ugly today on a bad hair day scale of 1-10 with mine being a -3.5.

I’ve got food on my brain today. I know you’re currently questioning an image of me with a fried egg on my head or something. Or perhaps wondering if I’ve gone bonkers having decided that if I lay food on my head, then I won’t be able to absorb calories, and will still be able to nourish myself. Condition my hair at the same time as well? Ah….no. I’ve succumbed. I’ve pulled the Slim-Fast from the back of the fridge. And worse? I’ve cracked open a jar of 100% Pure Stevia for my coffee this morning. And fat-free Coffee Mate. Blech. Seriously.

So that means I’ve consumed any number of barely pronounceable “ingredients,” and “minerals” this morning. *sigh* How I miss my Kashi and blueberries. And what the hell is Stevia, anyway? I saw it at Trader Joe’s, thought about it for two whole seconds and threw it in my basket right before vacation. Past experience has proven that no matter how much I have walked, or as in the case this year, swam and paddled a kayak, I return blimplike. A veritable dumpling just missing the gravy. A chubbette. Or phattissima. Have I made my point?

Retrospectively, I did not pork out on our vacation:

Chicken and Sausage Kabobs with Rice and a salad. Not big portions. Roasted veggies, mushrooms….YUM. Oh, but the MoH made Banana pancakes the next morning. Yes, and he drove them to the beach slathered in butter and “lite” syrup where my VBF and I were staked out with lounge chairs and building our compound at 8AM.

Then Grilled Tri-Tip, Roasted potatoes, and salad. Again, not big portions. Oh. But there were lovely berries and cream with chocolate chip merengues. Meringues don’t have calories, right? And berries are loaded with antioxidants. So there was only a plop of cream. Not too bad.

But there was breakfast again the next day. But then there were those grilled pork chops and quinoa salad with grilled bread. And pancakes and waffles the next morning. Oh my gawd, and then that pasta the last night with grilled sausage, chicken, veggies….And that baked blueberry crisp. With vanilla ice cream. Y-U-M.

Of course, I consumed absolutely no wine the entire time. Don’t blink or you’ll miss those low flying pigs…

Okay, so does no lunch every single day count for anything? Jeez. What am I supposed to do, starve myself?

Um…so on the way home we stopped at Mickey D’s. I just had to try one of those new angus Boi-gahz. Had. To.

What? You can’t see it quite clearly?

It actually tasted like a real hamburger. For the first time ever. And I don’t want to hear anything about Fast Food Nation, okay? Gimmeabreak. I’m not a Fast Food Frequent Flyer and I eat my grains and veggies regularly, okay? So no surprise that I’m not a vegetarian, but I have read recently that vegetarians are eating more meat… Just not Mickey D’s.

So how many calories could be in one hamburger? Huh? Uh, according to this source, only about 800. Uh, approximately three Lean Cuisine frozen entrees. That’s three lunches. No, I’m not checking on the fries. Or the Sprite. So probably four lunches.

My Slim-Fast has 190 calories. The Stevia zip.

Whatever.

Tomorrow I have to deal with the Thinner Bitch, that heartless, cold, slab of worthless metal and springs that I may launch across the street if she gives me any grief in the morning.

I was invited by my VBF to swim in The Cove again yesterday. And I was going to go. I really was. But that sinking feeling was there. The one that I felt the other day before I swam. The one that never really went away even though I enjoyed my swim in the ocean. The one that, if I thought about it a bit, could grow into a full fledged anxiety attack. I can just tell…

But I chickened out this time. I told my VBF I was sorry, and that by all means, she and my VGF should talk some serious smack about my chicken-ness while they were enjoying their swim in the ocean. Being the grand person she is, however, my VBF said we could get kick boards and do some laps in one of the pools our complex has access to. And she hates pools.

So I got on my erg instead. You know — one of those rowing machines. The one I talked the MoH out of I don’t even remember how many years ago. The one I used to “row” on regularly — oh, for about a whole month — with earbuds in place, the garage door open, and a fairly gorgeous panoramic East County neighborhood view that would lull me into sitting on the damn thing for at least 30 minutes. And because I did spend some time actually learning to row on real water with real people — eight, even — I could almost schmooze myself into thinking I was actually skimming over the water in the bay. While in my garage. I know. Everyone who wants to sell swamp land in Florida, I’m your guy. Yah. Uh-huh.

That erg. The one I sort of have to peer at through squinty eyes to try and remember if I like. So I borrowed the MoH’s Sony disc player which also has radio stations I can tune to. I found some less than attractive stretchy pants in my closet I bought and have never worn because they’re aqua colored. It was a lapse of judgement, okay? I popped the garage door open a quarter of the way so the neighbors wouldn’t stare at me to let air in, and wiped the inch of accumulated dust off the erg.

Shoved the Sony in the back of my waistband… adjusted the earbuds and volume. Punched the tuning button until I recognized a voice…Oprah? On the radio? Huh.

Secured my tennie clad feet into the velcro straps, and pushed “reset” on the info screen.

Settled my butt on the seat, took stock of my inspirational view of the Grease Behemoth BBQ we still haven’t unloaded on my left, and the side of my car that I hadn’t realized was dinged up as much as it is on my right. Partial view of the nanny van across the street at twelve o’clock. Ready?

I Tried a stroke or two, and adjusted the tension.

Went back through my mental rolodex on the proper form and sequence….legs, arms, back, snap….okay….GO.

Hmmm…I don’t remember my stomach getting in the way when I used to do this. Suck it in, Betty. Oh, this is just a bit awkward. Ooofff. You can do it! Atta gurrrrllllll.

Oprah, “blahblahblahblah….”

Should my thighs come apart when I get to the catch, or the release or whatever the hell it is? Do I just not slide down as far? Ugh. Maybe I can kind of do an alternating shift to the right, then to the left. Belly to the left. Lard gut to the right. Ooo…The twinges where my incisions were are a tad gross. Eww…

I lasted five minutes. FIVE whopping minutes. Sweat, pumping heart, gasping for breath. FIVE. I didn’t bother to look at the “calories burned” screen because it was probably 4. Crap, I absorb 4 calories walking into the kitchen.

And the Sony ended up completely down the back of my drawers which upon inspection resembled some kind of a lid to my rear end. Not attractive. But funny.

The water in The Cove would have been much nicer. Bwahk…

But the pool is right down the street. So guess where I’m going today?